I met my muse. I finally met my muse.

OK, I know what you’re thinking: “Smivey, how could you possibly be inspired by someone you’ve never met?” It’s either that or you’re thinking about cheese. I’m not sure. That’s just the vibe I’m getting. Anyhow, I’m going to tell you about meeting my muse. If you want to learn about cheese, go to this blog and leave me the fuck alone.

Now then, the first thing you have to understand is I’m rather shy. My muse calls it being “a royal pain in the ass,” but that’s neither here nor there nor behind that bush. The fact is, I don’t like to deal with people so much. At work, it’s another story. I’ve learned to adapt and I actually enjoy interacting with my co-workers. But outside of the office, I prefer to be left alone. That’s just the way I am. Deal with it.

Which brings us to the problem: Not many people can deal with it. Sure, they might enjoy my company online, but after a while, they need more. Yeah, that’s right, a face-to-face meeting. For most, this would be easy. You might actually look forward to meeting a person you’ve spent so many evenings with online. But for some of us—mainly me—this kind of thing goes against every grain of our souls.

So why did I finally agree to meet my muse? Rather than get into a four paragraph explanation, I’ll give you the one sentence answer: She gave me an ultimatum. “Smivey,” she said, “if you ever want me to leave Gino, you’re going to have to meet me.”

For those of you who don’t read my blog religiously (shame on you), Gino is the poet who has been shacking up with my muse. Apparently, he’s a better brooder than I am and he’s amazing in the sack. Also, I hear he’s good at sex.

Anyhow, so my muse told me that she couldn’t possibly inspire me unless she could see who I was. So, desperate for an idea, I agreed to a rendezvous at the most natural place for someone to meet his muse: the parking lot of a Target store.

I’ll never forget that day. It was a Saturday morning… or was it Sunday? Hm. Uh, let’s say Sunday. Anyhow, I arrived early and parked my car a good distance away from the store. I figured once my muse actually met me, she’d probably want to jump my bones. So when it came to parking spaces, the more secluded the better. Since I was a few minutes early, I just sat in my car and listened to some music. Those few minutes seemed to go on forever, not so much because of the anticipation, but because my muse was running late. It seems that while my muse is an excellent source for story ideas, she is not very punctual.

To be fair, there was a marathon being held that day and some of the streets were blocked. Unfortunately for my muse, I am not fair. When she finally showed up, I didn’t hesitate to give her a piece of my mind. Surprisingly, she enjoyed the piece I gave her and politely asked for another. Since she was so nice about it, I couldn’t say no. This was followed by another piece. And yet another. And another. Before too long, my muse had collected my entire brain in a Target shopping bag, which she proudly placed on her lap.

“Smivey,” she said. “Just how much do you want your brain back?”

I just sat there in my car and stared out the windscreen.

“C’mon, what are you willing to pay?”

Silence.

“Smivey! Do you even want your brain? How are you going to write?”

A bit of drool ran down my chin.

“Argh! You are so irritating! Just give me a number!”

Of course, anyone with half a brain would want their mind back. But, well, I didn’t even have a quarter of a brain. This one-way barter session went on for about thirty minutes before my muse picked up the Target bag and smacked me in the head with it. Amusingly, it made a rather pleasant tone, kind of like a xylophone. In fact, I bet if you were to line up a bunch of people with their brains removed and arranged them by cranium size, you’d end up with quite an impressive instrument. That being said, I cannot condone such activity, as it is illegal and immoral. Be sure to ask permission first.

Uh, where was I? Oh right, the brain thing. I was left in my car for days with my brain roasting in a shopping bag on the passenger’s seat. Fortunately, a Target employee finally discovered me when he was taking his robotic cart-gatherer out for an afternoon stroll. He carefully replaced my brain and removed from my wallet what he felt was a fair wage for such an operation. In other words, he took everything, even my library card. Funny thing is, I didn’t even know I had a library card until I started receiving warnings that the entire series of Erotic Adventures of Sleeping Beauty books was past due. For the record, I only have The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty and I never even made it through that one. Sorry, A. N. Roquelaure, but you’re no Anne Rice.

In any case, I have my brain back now and it’s slowly getting back into shape. You’re just going to have to bare with me. I mean, you can’t expect a man who didn’t have a brain for three days to be able to write flawless prose immediately. Come to think of it (because I can do that now), you wouldn’t expect him to be living at all. I’m a fucking walking miracle. So stop complaining about me not updating my blog and start calling your friends and telling them about the medical marvel that is I. . . that I am? In which I am? Hm.

Sorry. Like I said, it’s going to take a while to get this brain back into working condition. But I’m determined. I have a psychologist, a hypnotherapist and a life coach working with me every day. Thanks to them, I can now type over 30 words a minute and I’m capable of carrying on a relatively intelligent conversation with just about anyone. I should be grateful. But my success is somewhat bittersweet.

You see, I found out yesterday that my muse had no intention of leaving Gino for me. In fact, Gino was across the street the entire time recording everything on his Sony HD camcorder. She plans to show the video at her next muse meeting and let all the muses have a good laugh at my expense. Not only that, I hear she’s working on a book about her experience titled Beauty and Brains: Memoirs of a Muse. Oh well. Such is life. Farewell, muse. I wish you much happiness with Gino. Just keep in mind, he may be smarter, cooler, sexier and more talented than I am, but he’ll never be as. . .

I am so fucked.

I won’t even tell you how long I’ve been trying to make this blog entry work. Suffice it to say, more than a week. Anyhow, let’s get this over with.

I’ve spent most of my adult life living in fear: fear of the unknown, fear of rejection, fear of being attacked by an albino clown. You know, nothing unusual. Why am I bringing this up? Well, a friend of mine was recently given an assignment to write an essay about what life would be like if she had no fear — which got me to thinking: What would my life be like without any fear?

Hmmm well, I suppose I would travel more. Not only would I not be afraid of flying, I wouldn’t have any fear of foreign diseases. Oh, and I’d certainly be more successful, since I would be better at public speaking. I suppose I’d go out more often, too. Heck, I might even start dating again. But before I’d do that, I’d have to ask a woman out.

I hear the safest way to ask a woman for a date is for you to refer to it as “hanging out.” It makes it seem less creepy. Like this: “Hey, I think you’re pretty cool. Maybe we could hang out sometime and have sex?” Personally, I think that’s a little too blunt. I’d probably go with something more like this: “Hey, we seem to get along pretty well. Would you be interested in exchanging bodily fluids?” Yeah, I might try that one—if I had no fear.

So after I picked up my date and we went back to my place, I’d tell her that I’d just like to get straight to the sex. But before we had sex, I would do an eight-ball of cocaine and chug down an entire bottle of whiskey. Then I would take out a chef’s knife, lay my hand on the table and proceed to rapidly stab between my fingers. I would then throw the knife up in the air and just let it land where it may. In this case, that would be my right arm—right into the bone. Ouch. A life without fear does not mean a life without pain.

Anyhow, after the sex (no protection, of course), I’d go out and get some sushi—the raw kind, not that pussy California-roll crap. But rather than pay for my sushi, I’d go in the alley behind the restaurant and dig out the stuff they threw out last night. I mean, I know it would make me sick, but I really wouldn’t care, since I had no fear.

After getting very sick on the sushi, I’d eat some more of it, then take off all my clothes and run onto the freeway. Of course, it wouldn’t take long for me to get hit by a car. And if the first one didn’t totally take me out of existence, I’d lie down across the road and watch as cars came rushing at me, never flinching or blinking my eyes.

Yeah, a life without fear might seem like a good idea at first. But when you really think about it, you’re much better off being a wimpy, snivelling coward like me.

See, if I had more fear, I wouldn’t have posted this crappy blog entry. I apologise. It seemed like such a great premise. 

Well, it’s been a very long time since I last posted anything, but it’s not like I haven’t been writing. It’s just that I haven’t written anything that I felt was worthy of appearing on Everything Sucks. Hm. That’s rather ironic, isn’t it? Anyhow, that’s why I’ve created a new category for my less-than-stellar posts. It’s simply called “REJECTED.” It appears in all-caps because I want it to evoke the authority of a big, red rubber stamp: BOOM! REJECTED. OK, that being said, prepare for an onslaught of lousy writing. I can almost hear the people frantically clicking their mice to unsubscribe to my RSS feed. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

 

Syrup of Ipecac, you have met your match.

Help, I think I’m shrinking.

Recently, I went to one of those hip clothing stores to purchase a new pair of blue jeans. Although I’ve had a 34-inch waist for as long as I can remember, at this store, I’m a 32. What the fuck is going on there? Is it that damn metric system that throws everything off? Is it the low-rise design? Or maybe it has something to do with my bulimia.

No, I kid. Hope I didn’t offend anyone with an eating disorder. I love the bulimics.

Anyhow, it gets worse: I’ve had a 32-inch inseam for my entire adult life. But at this place, I’m almost tripping over what are supposed to be 32-inch-length jeans. I guess that’s the new style. Are the bottom of my pant legs supposed to drag across the pavement as I walk. Is that how it works? Hm.

In any case, after trying on numerous pairs of jeans, each with its own unique ghastly wash, I finally decide on a pair that looks almost normal. Of course, they cost as much as a new hard drive. But a new hard drive isn’t going to keep my ass warm or make it look sooo good. So I clench my fist and say, “I’ll take ‘em.”

As the cashier is carefully folding my jeans, wrapping them in tissue paper and securing the entire package with a silk ribbon, he instructs me on how to care for my new investment. “You want to wash these separately in cold water on the gentle cycle,” he says. “Don’t put them in the dryer.” Yeah, right. I’m gonna do that. Why stop there? Maybe I should soak them overnight in a solution of lavender soap and Evian. Or perhaps it would be best if I rinsed them in a mountain stream and hung them out to dry in a pine forest.

Fuck that. I’m going to shove them in the washing machine with all of my other dark clothes. Sure, they might bleed and destroy my fine washables, but I’m willing to take that chance. And when the wash cycle is over, guess what. Yeah, into the dryer they go — on the highest setting. Who knows, maybe they’ll shrink enough so I can actually walk in them without tripping.

Of course, there is that slight chance that my overly effeminate salesperson was right. Maybe my jeans will come out looking like somebody was beaten to death with them. If that’s the case, so be it. I’ll just go out and buy another pair. Then again, I could use another hard drive.

That’s probably what you’re thinking right now. OK, maybe this blog isn’t your favourite, and maybe you don’t spell “favourite” like that. But… uhhhh what was I talking about?

Oh, right. The new look of my blog. What do you think? I’m still working out the kinks. Right now, there is no search function and some of my archives are missing (YIKES!). Also, my blogroll is MIA. I need to fix all that. Not saying I can fix all of it. But I need to. I mean, I’m no master of CSS. I’m more of a serf.

But I digress. Again. Anyhow, I’m going to get back to trying to tweak this code. Thank you for your patience.

Oh, and if everything looks the same to you, that means I’m not messing with the new template at the moment. Be thankful.

Recently, I rediscovered the benefits of walking. Not just for better physical health. For better mental health. It helps me clear my mind and get my blood flowing for the day — so much better than a cup of coffee. In any case, I thought it might be interesting to record my thoughts as I walked. Since I haven’t figured out how this whole podcast thing works, I’ve had to resort to typing it all up for you. Hope you enjoy.

Well, here I go, out for my walk. Hey, there’s a squirrel. So cute. I love squirrels. I wonder what they taste like. Probably pretty gamey. Not much meat on them either. I would totally eat a squirrel—if I wasn’t a vegetarian. I mean, I’m not technically a vegetarian. I eat fish. Fuck, I almost stepped in some dog shit. I mean, excrement. Bleh. So gross. Oh, here’s a nice couch and a lamp. Why is someone throwing this out? If I was homeless, I would totally live here. Maybe I could get an extension cord and hook up that lamp to something. All I need is a throw rug and maybe some kind of coffee table. Ahhhh pretty comfy. Whoa. And very damp. Bleh. Now my ass is all wet. Great. I wonder if people can see it. Does it just look like I have a sweaty ass or does it seem like I had an accident? Why do people call pissing themselves an accident? It’s not like you ran into the pee. You knew it was coming, but you couldn’t hold it. Then again, what would you call it? A urinary malfunction? Hm.

Paragraph break. Why did I say that? I guess I figured I didn’t want to have one big block of copy. Hm. That was weird. I’m supposed to be recording my thoughts about this walk and not worrying about how it’s going to look when I type it out. Speaking of walking, I haven’t gotten very far. I can still see my front door from here. Actually, I’m next door. Hi! That was some lady with a dog. I don’t know why I said hi to her. I don’t know her and she didn’t seem to really want to know me. Fuck her. That was probably her dog’s shit. Bitch.

Paragraph break. Sorry about the paragraph break thing. I just can’t stop thinking about how this is going to look when you read it. OK, I’m walking again. Ow, my knee hurts. It sometimes gets like this when the weather is colder. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. OK, I give up. I’m going home. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. How do you turn this fucking thing off? It’s so fancy, it doesn’t have any words on it, just symbols. The red dot? Wouldn’t that be for record? Fuck. Maybe it’s—.

2:30 AM — SOMEWHERE IN FIJI:

The phone rings in a darkened hotel room. It rings again. And yet again. Finally, a slender hand appears out from underneath the covers and awkwardly feels for the phone receiver, picking it up just at the end of the fourth ring.

“Hello?” the groggy voice manages to say.

“Hello, Muse?”

“Smivey? What time is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s about 7:30 in the morning here. Did I wake you up?”

“Uh, what do you think?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Yeah, I know. But I thought you’d be back by now.”

“Well, I like it here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s quiet and everyone is so friendly.”

“I see… uhh have you thought about me?”

“Not really.”

“Oh. Hm. Well, I kind of miss you.”

“That’s nice. Having trouble with the blog, are we?”

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“I have free WiFi here.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything.”

“Yeah, we need to talk about that.”

“Yeah? You have some ideas for me?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“Well, I met a poet.”

“A poet?”

“Yeah. He’s such a damaged soul, ya know?”

“I have a damaged soul.”

“Not really. Not like his.”

“Well, I can make it more damaged.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I can’t believe you’re leaving me for a poet.”

“Yeah, I thought you were good at brooding, but this guy is a master. He broods, like, twenty-four seven.”

“I see.”

“You going to be OK?”

“Yeah, I think so. Can you throw an idea my way, just for old time’s sake?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Well, if I give you one more idea, you’ll only end up wanting me back more.”

“Hm. Yeah, I guess. Well, I hope you and your poet have a nice life together.”

“Really? Do you mean it?”

“Uh, no. I’m fucking jealous.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Well, I guess I better get going. Sorry about waking you up.”

“That’s OK. Gino’s up now.”

“Gino?”

“The poet.”

“Oh, fuck. Like I needed to hear that. Thanks a lot. Bye.”

“Byeeee heeeheeeheeheeeee ohhhh Gino! Stop!”

CLICK

Well, guess what. Yeah, my muse has “inspired” me to write another story. This time, she didn’t say what I should write about or how long it should be. She didn’t even give me a sentence to start with.

“Write,” she whispered in my ear.

“Hm?”

“Write.”

“Write what?”

“Just write.”

“OK, thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, muse, I won’t. You want me to write? Give me something to write about.”

“Fine, write about sweat.”

“Sweat?”

“Yeah, sweat.”

“I’m not going to write about sweat.”

“You need to.”

“No, I really don’t. Sweat is gross.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You will. Write about sweat and it will all make sense.”

“Muse?”

“Hm?”

“When was the last time you went on vacation?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A few years ago.”

“Yeah, I think it’s time for you to take one of those long vacations.”

“Well, I do feel pretty overworked.”

“I’m sure.”

“But what will you do while I’m away?”

“Oh, I think I’ll manage.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure.”

So, in any case, now that my muse is away, I can write about whatever I want. Freedom at last… hm. Give me a minute.

Once upon a time there was a very attractive gentleman. He was everything a woman could desire: tall, fit and amazing in bed. There was only one problem: he was very sweaty.

No, no, no. Not sweaty. He was, uhhhh fuck. That stupid muse is in my head! I don’t want to write about sweat! I will NOT write about sweat! You hear me, muse?

Anyhow, the only problem was, he had a bad sense of humour. I mean, it was the worst. There were five-year-olds who told better jokes than this guy. Of course, at first, the women were all hot for him, then something like this would happen:

“Hi there,” he would say.

“Oh, hi,” the woman would reply.

“How many elephants does it take to change a light bulb?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked you how may elephants it takes to change a light bulb.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have a light bulb that went out and I need it to be fixed.”

“Oh. Seems like something you could do yourself.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Never mind.”

“It’s OK. Can we have sex now?”

“Yeah, OK.”

So, then they would both end up having sex. Amazing sex. I mean, really sweaty… awww crap! DAMN YOU, MUSE! DAMN YOU!

I give up. The end.

I have a muse and she is beautiful. She is also very self-absorbed. I mean, she told me to write this.

“Write a story about me.” she said. “Tell them I’m beautiful.”

“OK,” I replied. “If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, that is what I want. I want everyone to know just how wonderful I am.”

“Yeah, but what’s the point of it?”

“Hm?”

“What’s the point of me writing about you?”

“Don’t question me! Just write!”

So here I am, writing about my muse. The thing is, I don’t know what else to say about her. I mean, you’ve read my blog. It’s pretty twisted. That’s because my muse is kind of, well, mentally disturbed. Sure, she’s beautiful and all, but she’s also a bit off.

Last week, she kept telling me to write a story about strawberry jam. I’m like, “Uh, what am I supposed to say about strawberry jam?” “It’s yummy,” she replied. Yeah, thanks for that brilliant insight, muse. So I struggled with that strawberry jam piece for hours, and you know what I got? A giant load of crap. Observe:

There was once this jar of strawberry jam. All day it would just sit in the refrigerator and bother the marmalade.

“Dude, you’re totally marmalade,” the strawberry jam would say.

“Yes, we established that last year,” the marmalade would reply.

“Dude,” the strawberry jam would continue.

“For pete’s sake, what?!” the irritated marmalade would reply.

“You’ve got orange rind in you and shit.”

“Yes. And your point is?”

“You’re totally bitter, dude.”

This went on for some time. Then, one day the refrigerator door opened and the marmalade pushed the strawberry jam off the shelf and onto the linoleum floor. Unfortunately, the strawberry jam was in one of those unbreakable squeeze bottles, so he was just picked up and placed back on the shelf. After the refrigerator door closed, the strawberry jam continued:

“Dude, you totally just pushed me of the shelf!”

“Yeah.”

“That was awesome!”

“Oy.”

“We totally have to do that again, only this time, give me a really good push!”

“Yeah, OK.”

“I want to totally bounce off of that linoleum, man!”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Awesome.”

About an hour later, the refrigerator door opened and the marmalade promptly jumped off the shelf and onto the linoleum floor, shattering its container into several large pieces. Nevertheless, nobody cared, since they never really liked to eat marmalade anyway. They just bought the jar because it looked fancy and impressive when people visited.

Still, the strawberry jam was pretty upset. For days, he just sat in the fridge, mourning the loss of his good friend. It seemed like nothing could make the pain go away. Then, one day, he was introduced to a fresh jar of Georgia peach conserve, and from that moment on, things got very, very sticky. Awww yeahhhh.

Yeah, I don’t know what it means either. In any case, my muse was pleased with my efforts, so I guess that’s all that matters.

By now, you’re probably wondering why I keep this muse of mine around. After all, she’s inspired me to write some pretty weird stuff. To be honest, I’m pretty twisted myself. It’s just that sometimes I get too scared to post a blog entry because it might be too stupid or poorly written. That’s when my muse puts her hands on my shoulders and gives me that little push I need. Just like the marmalade did for the strawberry jam.